Quinn grimaced and rubbed at the pounding headache at his temples as he strode across the field, the pain a result of last night’s unfortunate combination of too little sleep and too much scotch.
And not nearly enough Annabelle.
He flipped up the collar of his coat against his neck to ward off the drizzling rain that threatened to fall at any moment and the summer morning’s unexpected cold. True to the north’s unpredictable weather, clouds had moved in during the night and now hung low over the mountains and valleys, leaving the fields awash in a blue morning haze. The temperature had dropped a good twenty degrees. He would have said that the chill made it difficult to imagine Belle swimming in the pond, but he’d had a tempting glimpse of her there, and now that seemed to be the only thing he wanted to think about.
Good Lord, how the gel vexed him! He couldn’t remember the last time he’d lost sleep over a woman, if ever, but that’s exactly what she’d done to him. And not only because of that outrageous marriage proposal, although the prospect of wedding anyone certainly terrified him enough to ensure nightmares.
No. He was loath to admit even to himself that rest hadn’t come because, in those few moments when he’d managed to fall asleep, his dreams were punctuated not by nightmares of marriage shackles but by erotic visions of Belle.
He groaned. Not erotic, not exactly. When he’d dreamed of Belle, he saw her in that white cotton night rail, the bow at her bosom untied and its ribbons streaming along behind her as she walked through the mists, her hair free and tumbling down her back. A smile on her face that made him ache, a laugh that lilted lightly on the soft air. Head turned to reveal her elegant neck. Slender legs revealed to the knees, and arms just as bare. Then she turned back and offered him her hand, to follow her down into the dew-covered heather…He’d glimpsed more of her at the pond than in his dream, yet he’d awakened hard as iron.
Oh yes. He had definitely lost his mind.
So at dawn he gave up all pretense of sleep and went down for an early breakfast, hoping to find Belle so he could answer her proposal and end his suffering. But Ferguson informed him that she was already up and outside, as was her habit most mornings. Wonderful. The aggravating woman was also an early riser.
Quinn rolled his eyes. He knew how to deal with ladies of the ton. Those women slept until noon, would never be caught dead in a library, and would certainly never drink scotch. Or pour it over a man’s head.
But the contradiction that was Annabelle Greene fascinated as much as it frustrated. The beautiful woman on the outside was a hellcat beneath, an intelligent and sharp woman who knew practically everything…except the effect she had on men. She infuriated him and intrigued him, and she had him still wanting to tease and torment her like a kid, just so the man he’d become could selfishly see the fire inside her. How was it possible that the same woman who had him wanting to yank her into his arms also had him wanting to put an ocean between them?
Madness. Madness that she should have ever considered him for her proposal. That Aunt Agatha thought he could be her protector.
Apparently lunacy was contagious.
He reached the crest of a small rise overlooking the south pasturelands and saw her. Dressed in men’s trousers and work boots just like the workers around her, complete with a tweed cap covering her hair, she helped to heave a thick post out of an irrigation ditch and onto the creek bank.
Quinn let out a frustrated breath. Apparently, nothing about Belle was typical.
With all the grim resolve of a man going to his own execution, he started toward her and the group of workmen gathered at the small stone structure at the side of the creek.
One of the men bent down to give Belle a hand up from the ditch, where she stood up to her knees in water. From the way none of the men laughed at her appearance when she scrambled to her feet, not only were they used to seeing her in workman’s clothes but they were also used to being directed by her. He’d admit that knowing she’d inherit Glenarvon stirred jealousy inside him, when he would be forced to start from nothing. But he also felt admiration for her, because she didn’t consider herself either above hard work or too delicate for it.
She rested her hands on her round hips beneath the long, brown coat, which reached to the tops of her muddied boots. Her shoulders sagged as she answered a question from one of the workman, “…damaged on purpose.”
The man behind her lifted his eyes to Quinn as he approached. He cleared his throat loudly enough to cut off Belle’s reply, then nodded past her to gain her attention.
Belle glanced over her shoulder and saw Quinn. For a heartbeat, she froze as uneasiness darkened her face. Then it vanished just as quickly, replaced by a bright smile that he knew was forced for the benefit of the men around her. Certainly not for him. From the flash deep in her eyes, he knew the Bluebell was still peeved at him for their misunderstanding last night.
“Lord Quinton, good morning.” But she couldn’t hide the surprise in her voice at his arrival, or a soft bit of sarcasm as she teased, “I’m surprised to see you up so early, given your reputation as a Corinthian.”
He laughed. A Corinthian? Well, he’d been called a lot of things by women before, but never that. “Not everyone in London sleeps until noon, Miss Greene,” he countered good-naturedly as he stopped in front of her. He was suddenly very aware of the men’s eyes on him, sizing him up and wondering who he was. And what he wanted with Glenarvon’s mistress.
She asked wryly, “Just half past eleven, then?”
“Quarter ’til,” he sent back with a crooked grin.
“Well,” she commented, “then you’re a good four hours early to start your day.”
She smiled, but he sensed an anxious dread beneath her calm façade, noting the tense way her shoulders stiffened, how she clenched and unclenched her gloved hands nervously at her sides. As a woman donning men’s clothing, her unusual appearance served only to make her somehow even more appealing. More feminine. And heartbreakingly vulnerable.
Guilt gnawed at his gut, yet there was no help for it. She wanted an answer, and he had no reason to delay the inevitable. In fact, if he’d had his wits about him last night, instead of being preoccupied with the way she’d felt in his arms, he would have told her his answer then and saved them both from this awkward meeting.
Yet whatever trouble he was about to cause her would be better dealt with sooner rather than later. Telling her this morning would give her more time to find a better candidate for marriage. It had nothing at all to do with wanting to avoid the confusion he felt about her. Or the persistent attraction between them, which had reared its head again last night and apparently still lingered between them so palpably that even now the air crackled with it.
At least that was what he kept telling himself from the moment he’d left his room to find her. If he repeated it to himself often enough, maybe he would start to believe it.
This morning, her eyes gleamed more green than gold in the veiled sunlight of the overcast sky. But the nervous flicker in their honeyed depths signaled that she knew why he’d sought her out. And that she’d already guessed his answer.
He felt the weight of the men’s curious stares on him, not bothering to pretend that they weren’t eavesdropping on the conversation. But this was not a discussion he wanted to share. He inclined his head. “Would you care to take a walk with me, Miss Greene?”
Her strained smile faded, and she hesitated. Then, with a stiff nod, she wordlessly turned to stroll along the creek, away from the worksite.
He fell into step beside her. They walked on together in silence, which soon became acutely uncomfortable, the tension between them as thick as the clouds overhead. He grimaced as he took a sideways glance at her determined profile. She was going to make him talk first, clearly, but he wasn’t yet ready to broach the reason he’d invited her for the walk. Despite knowing what had to be done, he was reluctant to add to her troubles.
He glanced over his shoulder and asked, “What are you doing back there?”
“Repairs,” she answered curtly. Instead of placing her hand on his arm, as any London lady would have done, she removed her muddied gloves and shoved both hands deep into her coat pockets. Not touching him. Did the little hellcat realize the cut she was giving him?
But of course she did. Apparently he’d underestimated how much that night at the St James ball had hurt her.
“What kind of repairs?” he pressed, wanting to draw her out and knowing how much the estate meant to her.
She eyed him suspiciously. “You really want to know?”
“Yes.” He did. Surprisingly enough.
She hesitated, then relented on her silence. “The spillway gate for the irrigation ditch broke, and the south pasture flooded,” she explained. “Our shepherd, McDougal, found it two days ago when he rode out to check on the sheep, so the men spent all day yesterday moving the flock into a smaller pasture until we can fix the gate and the land dries out.” She glanced up at the gray clouds overhead, heavy with their promise of rain, and he could almost hear the curse she inwardly yelled at Mother Nature. “If it ever dries out.”
Something about the way she described the damage pricked at him. “You don’t think it was due to age and wear, though, do you?”
She hesitated a moment, then shook her head. “No,” she sighed as if resigned to getting it fixed and forgotten as soon as possible. “Burns thinks it was done intentionally.”
“Burns?”
“Angus Burns, my foreman.”
Ah, the guard dog who had watched him so closely when he’d arrived at the stonework.
She explained, “His family has lived legally on Glenarvon land for five generations.”
“Legally?” he repeated, sliding her a curious glance as she walked beside him.
“Illegally for far longer than that.” Her lips curled into a smile, the first genuine one he’d seen from her this morning. “He helps me oversee the property and manages the building repairs and maintenance. He makes certain the work crews have no problem taking orders from a woman.”
“I doubt you need anyone’s help with that.” Not based on the way the men paid attention to her instructions at the ditch.
A faint smile of pride teased at her lips, before a wrinkle of worry creased her brow. “It’s been…an odd year,” she confided, lowering her voice as they made their way toward the hill. “We’ve had more than our fair share of accidents and problems recently.”
Struck by that, he halted and reached for her arm to stop her. His eyes searched her face for answers. “Are you in danger, Belle?”
“No! Of course not.” She waved away his concerns with a scoffing laugh. “You wouldn’t have been invited here if anyone was in danger.”
“Annabelle.” Her name emerged as a low warning. “Don’t dissemble. Not with this.”
“No one’s been hurt,” she admitted, “and no lasting damage has been done. But it’s bothersome enough to distract from the real work of the estate.”
Her denial didn’t reassure him. “Enough to make you regret running Glenarvon by yourself?”
“Never.” Determination flashed in her eyes.
She pulled her arm away and walked on, leaving him to catch up. Stubborn chit. He scowled as he fell into step beside her.
“The creek feeds into the irrigation ditch, as you saw,” she explained with a wave of her hand, as if she were explaining the workings of the estate to a new hire, and most likely grateful to change topics. “When everything works properly, we can control the amount of water to the pastures. The creek joins the Arvon River at the bottom of the glen.” She pointed behind them toward the glen cutting its way across the property. “That’s how the estate got its name.”
“Glenarvon,” he murmured. “And the castle?”
She beamed, her smile full and bright. And full of love for the place. “The ruins lie up ahead on the hill above the pond.”
The pond where Belle liked to swim at sunset. Naked. Quinn suddenly gained a new appreciation for history.
“It was built in the fourteenth century to guard this stretch of the river. Now all that’s left of it are a handful of walls and tumbled stones.” With pride ringing in her voice, as if daring him to contradict her, she added, “But I think it’s beautiful.”
“So do I.” He stopped to pluck a wild rose from a bush growing alongside the creek.
She shook her head, clearly exasperated with him. “But you haven’t even seen the ruins yet.”
He shrugged and handed her the flower. “I believe you.”
She stared at the rose, momentarily wary, as if she didn’t trust it not turn into a snake and bite her. Then she mumbled, “Thank you.”
She took the pale pink flower from his hand and raised it to her nose, then turned away quickly and began walking again, but not before he saw a matching pale pink blush color her cheeks. He was finding a new appreciation for those rose-pink blushes, too.
“But we’re not stuck in the Middle Ages,” she continued as she turned onto a narrow path snaking through the trees to the top of the rise. He fell into step behind her. “We’re a modern country. Things are changing rapidly, and I have big plans for the estate and the village.”
He smiled. Why was he not surprised? “Like what?”
“Well, first, I want to improve the village school.” The description of her plans came slowly in her hesitancy to trust him. “I started the school three years ago, but I want to employ a good teacher from London or York who can teach the children the basics they need to know. Their numbers and letters, how to manage property, how to avoid being taken advantage of by unscrupulous millers and merchants—” She quickly ticked off the list on her fingers, her reluctance to share her plans with him now gone. “And especially how to read. All those skills they won’t get as apprentices or might never get at all as tenant farmers.” She glanced back at him, as if to gauge his reaction, before continuing up the path. “And I want to find a real doctor for the village, too, not just an apothecary.”
As she continued to list all her plans, Quinn stopped and watched her walk up the hill ahead of him, now seeing her in a completely different light.
She wasn’t just the bluestocking and lady’s companion he’d always known. Annabelle Greene had grown into a capable estate manager with a just understanding of the importance a manor house had on its village’s future. In fact, some of her plans were exactly what he wanted to do in America…to have a piece of land of his own to shape and to help the local townspeople. While he would have to spend years creating that dream, she had the opportunity within her reach now, the right vision for the future, and the determination to see her dream through.
But he couldn’t be the man to help her reach it.
His chums at the clubs would have thought him daft to pass up this opportunity, given the terms that Belle had proposed…a share of the profits and the freedom to go on with his new life in America exactly as planned, fulfilling the promises he’d made to his father and Asa Jeffers. Any less scrupulous man would have immediately flung her over his shoulder and marched straight to Gretna Green to get his hands on everything she’d offered. And to get his hands on her.
But Quinn would never use her like that. Nor would he ever abandon his wife.
His eyes wandered over Belle as she climbed up the hill in front of him, unwittingly giving him a delectable view of her round derriere, made even more visible by the men’s trousers.
He bit back a groan. Being an honorable man was beginning to lose its appeal.
As he followed her up the hill, the trees and bushes gave way to a clearing, and in the center stood the old ruins of Castle Glenarvon rising in a jumble of fallen stones and half-tumbled walls. But he could easily see the outline of what had once been a sturdy keep, with some of the ramparts still capping the tops of the remaining walls, which stood over two stories high in the far corner where they met. The rise gave breathtaking views of the river and glen to the west and the cloud-covered mountains to the north, while the ruins gave a sense of history and romance. As his eyes swept over the horizon, he realized why Annabelle loved this place so much.
And why she would hate him when he refused to marry her.
She sat on one of the stones and patted her hand on the rock beside her in invitation for him to join her. Fresh guilt clawed at his gut.
“Isn’t the castle marvelous?” She smiled at him as he sat beside her. “I laugh every time I think about those wealthy lords to the south who are paying small fortunes to create follies in their gardens when our ruins are better than anything Capability Brown could ever have envisioned.”
An uncomfortable silence fell over them as they gazed together at the ruins. Then he leaned forward with his elbows resting on his thighs, his hands clasped between this knees.
He said quietly, “I can’t marry you.”
She stiffened but otherwise didn’t move. Didn’t deign to look at him, only kept her gaze straight ahead at the estate spreading out before them. But Quinn felt the change in her, as her petite body turned as hard as the cold rock beneath him. And surely so did whatever small feelings of friendship she might have still carried for him.
“I’m on my way to America,” he explained when she said nothing. That cold silence was more accusatory than he’d thought possible. “I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for four years.”
Longer, if he were honest. The thought of striking out to America had been with him since that summer after he was graduated from Oxford, when he realized that the life of an English peer’s son was not for him. Richard Carlisle had been supportive of the idea from the start, and Quinn had been determined to do exactly that and make his father proud of him.
“I want property of my own, a chance to prove myself apart from the title and the Carlisle name,” he explained, sharing with her what he’d never told anyone else. Not even Robert. “No matter what success I find here, people will claim it was only because of Trent, only because I’m a Carlisle, and not because of any hard work or smart decisions I make. There’s no way to escape Trent’s influence without leaving the country.”
And no other way to fulfill his promise to his father.
“I’m not asking you to give up that dream,” she said quietly, finally breaking her silence yet still not looking at him. “You can still go to America and—”
“I will not abandon my wife,” he stated firmly. He might be a scoundrel who was well on his way to being a rake, but he had that much honor, at least.
She said nothing, her gaze fixed on the horizon.
“This is my chance to make my own future, Annabelle.” Surely, she understood that. “I have no way to do that in England. Land is too expensive here.”
“Not if you marry into it,” she countered in a whisper.
“It wouldn’t be my land,” he said quietly. “It would be yours.” And he would be nothing but a de facto estate agent, this time for his wife instead of his brother.
He didn’t think it was possible, but her body tightened even more, like the tension of a coiling spring. He could feel the emotion pulsating from her as her fingers gripped into the rock beneath her, so hard that her fingertips turned white.
He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “I’m leaving this morning. As soon as I say good-bye to Aunt Agatha.” And roused Robert from bed, so they could ride on together to the coast. Saying good-bye to his brother would be difficult enough, given how close they were; he didn’t want to do it any sooner than he had to. “If we leave this morning, we can be to Keswick by nightfall.”
“You don’t have to leave so soon,” she countered, seizing on a new line of attack. The hope he heard in her voice nearly undid him. “America’s big. There’s lots of land there for sale. You can buy another property if you lose this one.”
“No, I can’t. It has to be this piece of land.” He stared grimly at his hands, folded between his knees. “It belongs to a family friend. He’s been holding it for me but needs to divest himself of it by the New Year. He made me a good offer if I bought it and let him and his wife remain on the property.” And Quinn had made a promise to do just that. A promise he had every intention of keeping. “They have no one else.”
In the silence that followed, she sat unnaturally still, not even breathing. Then, so softly that the words were barely above a breath on her lips, she whispered, “I have no one else.”
Anger pulsed through him, chasing on the heels of a flood of guilt. Damnation. It wasn’t his responsibility to secure her future when he had his own to worry about. Didn’t she realize that?
He jumped down from the rock, then wheeled on her. “This is not my problem to solve.”
Her own anger flared to the surface. “Isn’t it?”
“Because of that damned fight?” Christ. Not this again! With frustration simmering inside him that she refused to leave that night to the past where it belonged, he planted his hands on the stone on either side of her and leaned in, her face level with his. Close enough that he saw the gold flecks in her irises when her eyes flared at his boldness. This fight was a long time in coming, and they would finally have it all out. Here and now. “Was I supposed to just stand there and do nothing while Williams said those things about you?”
“Yes!” She straightened her spine. “Better to be insulted than to have my reputation ruined, don’t you think?”
“I didn’t ruin your reputation,” he countered. “That was nothing more than an accident and poor timing.”
She imperially raised a brow, in a gesture that eerily reminded him of Aunt Agatha. “And was slamming your fist into Williams’s jaw accidental?”
“No.” He grinned, just to irritate her. “That was pure pleasure.”
“That was your arrogance getting in the way,” she snapped.
He gritted his teeth. “I was defending your honor.”
“I didn’t need my honor defended.” She jabbed her finger into his chest. “But you wouldn’t listen to me and had to throw your fists at Williams—”
“I did not throw my fists at him!” Good Lord. She made it sound like a grammar school shoving match. But if she thought she could guilt him into marriage, she’d better think again. He deliberately bit out each word, “That night was not my fault.”
She cast him a contemptuous look, one so cold it shivered through him. “So you keep saying.”
She looked down at the wild rose blossom she still held in her hand, then threw it away. She shoved him back, giving herself just enough room to slip to the ground and hurry away.
Oh no. That little force of nature was going nowhere! Not after the bomb she’d just exploded.
He grabbed her arm as she tried to step past him. “Listen to me, damn it!”
With a fierce yank, she tried to wrench herself away, but he held tight. He took both of her arms and pulled her up against him to hold her still.
“What do you want from me, Annabelle?” he demanded, unable to keep the exasperation from his voice. “An apology?”
“You can keep your apologies!” she spat back. So much anger radiated from her that she shook with it, her breath coming quick and ragged, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “I don’t want them.”
“Good. Because I’m not giving any.” Her eyes blazed indignantly at that and stirred the burning inside him. “I’m not sorry for fighting over you that night. I’ll never be.” He pulled her closer as he leaned back against the rock. “But it’s not the fight that upsets you, is it?”
“Let me go!” she hissed.
The hell he would. He lowered his head until his mouth nearly touched hers. Each panting little breath of hers fanned across his lips, and beneath his hands he could feel her pulse racing. “It’s what happened before the fight that bothers you. How we kissed.”
When her face darkened, he knew he was right. An electric thrill spun through him.
“When you played another one of your childish pranks on me,” she ground out accusingly. “What was the goal that time, Quinton? To put me into tears by making me think you wanted to kiss me, when it was only a joke to you?”
He stared down into her eyes, seeing a heated mix of anger and arousal that had her nearly breathless. “I kissed you because I couldn’t help myself.”
She inhaled sharply at his confession, and his gaze dropped to her mouth and fixed there. As if he could devour her simply by looking.
“Because you were beautiful in the moonlight, because I wanted to taste your lips and feel you pressed against me.” Then he dared to admit all— “Because I couldn’t believe that the awkward little girl I’d spent years tormenting had grown into a woman who was so unaware of her own allure that she’d venture into the shadows of the garden with a rogue like me.”
“You’re lying,” she breathed, stunned by that raw admission.
“I’m not.” He shifted her in his arms, until he wasn’t keeping her from fleeing but holding her willingly against him. “Or about how much I enjoyed that kiss.” He felt the catch of her breath against his lips. “And so did you.”
She swallowed nervously, and he suppressed the urge to place his mouth right there at her throat to feel the soft undulation beneath his lips. “I didn’t.”
“Liar,” he rasped. “But if you don’t believe me, I’m happy to prove it.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You wouldn’t—”
He lowered his head and kissed her, unable to resist one heartbeat longer.
Sweet Lucifer…Quinn knew kisses, and knew them well. He’d kissed more women than he could remember, and a misspent youth had made him good enough at it to turn half of those encounters into full-out seductions. But this, this wasn’t just a kiss. This was so much more.
Those other kisses didn’t leave him trembling the way that he trembled now. They didn’t intoxicate him with the wild scent of the highlands and heather. They didn’t leave his gut twisting into knots and his head spinning, or make the world fall away until he was aware only of the warm sweetness of her breath tickling at his lips, her soft body leaning into his in innocent invitation. But Belle’s kisses did just that. They were addictive, leaving him hungering for a deeper taste…one which he knew he shouldn’t claim yet desperately wanted.
But if this morning was to be the last time he’d ever get to see her, why should he stop? He’d have this moment together to remember her by.
And just like six years ago, he couldn’t help himself.
“I remember everything about that kiss,” he murmured truthfully against her lips, although at that moment he would have said anything to keep her mouth against his and her body leaning into him, tasting the unbearable sweetness of her. “And how beautiful you were that night. How alluring.”
“Quinton,” she whispered in a soft plea.
Another kiss, but this time, he took her bottom lip between his and sucked, eliciting a shiver from her as he drew her lip deep into his mouth.
She inhaled a jerking breath. Then the last of her stubborn resistance melted away, and she slumped bonelessly against him. His arms around her kept her pressed close, to prevent her from slipping down his body to the ground. Instead of pushing him away, her hand at his shoulder now fisted the collar of his wool coat in her fingers to keep him close.
Joy soared inside him at her capitulation, and he welcomed her response as her mouth softened against his and her body relaxed within his arms. Sweet and delicate, the kiss possessed none of the flaring passion nor the eager fumbling he remembered from six years ago—but it was just as magnetic, just as arousing. Even more so. Because her body was now softer and more yielding with her maturity, which only made him crave more.
“I remember this, too.” He slid his thumb to her chin and gently tugged down, opening her mouth as he slipped his tongue between her lips.
A shameless lie. He hadn’t kissed her so intimately that night beneath the rose bower. If he had dared to sweep across her inner lip like this, to delve his tongue inside the dark, moist recesses of her kiss and taste the sweetness hidden there like ambrosia—God help him, because even now her kiss heated him down to his core and left him shaking.
She whimpered softly. He responded to her growing arousal by cupping the back of her head against his palm, to keep her mouth captured against his as he began to thrust his tongue in rhythmic strokes between her lips. He knocked away her tweed cap and dug his fingers into her soft hair until it tumbled loose down her back, all the while not stopping in his relentless desire to kiss her the way no man had ever kissed her before. If he had to leave with only this memory to remember her by, then damnation, he wanted to make certain she never forgot him, either.
But when her lips closed tentatively around his tongue and took a gentle suck, he felt the unpracticed pull of her mouth straight down to his tightening gut. He was a fool to think he could control this encounter, now as swept up in the embrace as much as she.
“Annabelle,” he rasped hoarsely, tearing his mouth away from hers to nip his teeth down the side of her neck and drawing a breathless moan of need from her.
Dear God, how he thrilled at those little sounds that came from her! Even now his cock tingled at her guileless response. She dug her fingers into his hair, and he gladly let her, because every electrifying scratch of her fingertips against his scalp sent shivers spiraling through him.
When she moved her mouth against his to kiss him back and nibbled tentatively at his bottom lip the way he’d done to hers, he groaned.
She pulled back, a worried frown marring her pretty face. “Is something wrong?”
He cupped her face between his hands and pursued her for another kiss. “Nothing.”
Just everything. For God’s sake, at that moment, he should have been packing his bags and readying his horse to leave, but he couldn’t tear himself away. He tugged back the collar of her coat to gain access to the side of her neck where it sloped beneath her shirt, then licked at the patch of revealed skin.
She bit back another moan rising at her lips, and he smiled at her innocence as he sat back on the stone. To fight away the very thing that would bring such pleasure…Yet he understood her nervousness, because his own hands shook as he reached beneath her coat and encircled her waist to draw her onto his lap.
Trembling hands? He nearly laughed. The woman had all of him shaking! So much for his reputation as a rake if such an unschooled gel like Annabelle had him as nervous as a green pup, so nervous that his fingers could barely unfasten the buttons of her waistcoat.
“Quinn?” His name was an uncertain whisper.
“You’re so pretty, Belle,” he whispered, his hands gently pushing her waistcoat open to reveal the thin white shirt and the shadow of her breasts beneath in the blue morning light. He groaned—she wasn’t wearing stays. “I had forgotten how much.”
He trailed a hand slowly down her front and pulled at the shirt to draw the fabric taut across her breasts. Her nipples, already pebbled in arousal, showed dusky rose through the white material. His breath hitched at the sight of her. Sweet Lucifer, she was beautiful.
“Quinn.” This time, his name was an aching sigh of permission as she arched herself toward him.
Unable to resist, he lowered his head and captured her right nipple through the thin fabric, finally taking the taste of her he craved.
A gasp of surprise tore from her at the intimate contact, but she leaned harder into him, her fingertips digging into his shoulders as she fought to regain the breath he’d so easily stolen from her. His pulse spiked. He couldn’t remember ever kissing another woman who was so responsive to each little touch and caress. Even now as he suckled at her nipple, she trembled beneath his mouth, her eyes closed and her lips parted, as if having his mouth on her like this gave her the most intense pleasure she’d ever known.
When he lifted his head, he saw the wet circle his mouth had left through her shirt, the now translucent material tantalizingly encircling her nipple. He couldn’t resist tracing his thumb over the hard bud and making her shudder before he leaned up to capture her mouth again. This time, she welcomed him eagerly with a hot, openmouthed kiss. One that left him hard between his thighs and throbbing for her.
He wanted to make her ache just as much as he did. With his left arm around her to keep her close, he shifted her on his lap, until she straddled him as he perched at the edge of the stone.
Her eyes flew open, and all of her tensed. She stared uncertainly up at him but didn’t pull back. Instead, her arms tightened boldly around his neck, her breath coming in small pants of arousal. She bit her bottom lip.
He understood her hesitation—she didn’t know if she could trust him with this embrace when he’d so foolishly wounded her after the last one. “I would never do anything to hurt you,” he reassured her, despite the husky rasp of his voice, now thick with desire. “I only want to bring you pleasure.”
Which was the God’s honest truth. He’d never cared about pleasing another woman in his life the way he did with Annabelle. He found his own satisfaction in giving pleasure to her, and even now that sweet reward pulsed through him and left him insatiably wanting more. He wanted to bring her to bliss.
Not breaking eye contact with her, unable to tear his gaze away from her beautifully flushed face even if he’d wanted to, he lifted his right hand to his mouth and removed his glove with his teeth. He dropped it to the ground.
Her eyes widened nervously. “What are you doing?”
“I want to touch you, Annabelle,” he purred and felt her sharp intake of air. He hadn’t meant to sound so wolfish, yet he couldn’t keep the arousal from his voice. “I’ve wanted to touch you for six years. Will you let me?”
His heart pounded so fiercely as he breathlessly waited for her answer that he suspected she could feel it—
“Yes,” she whispered, the word shivering from her lips.
His body flashed hot at her soft permission. He leaned forward to place a tender kiss on her throat, making her eyes close again. A soft, shuddering sigh seeped from her. He placed his hand on her leg and slowly, so not to frighten her, slid it upward along her inner thigh.
She dug her fingers into his shoulders as his hand reached the juncture where her legs met. Her name fell from his lips in a low groan as he lightly stroked his thumb against her, down between her legs along the seam of her trousers. She trembled.
“All right?” he asked.
“Good,” she whispered, simultaneously nodding and holding her breath.
With a smile at her contradiction of alluring innocence, he stroked against her again, this time harder and tantalizingly slower than before. She gasped, only for the soft sound to turn into a low moan of pleasure.
“Oh, that’s—” She licked her lips as he continued to caress her through her trousers. “That’s very good.”
Her mouth found his again, and she kissed him ardently as her fingers ran through his hair in silent encouragement. She widened her thighs in shameless invitation, one he very much wanted to accept—
A shout went up from the fields below.
With a startled gasp, Belle slipped off his lap and staggered away from him, brought back to her senses by the intruding world around them. Her hand flew up to her mouth as she stared at him, moon-eyed and stunned, as if she couldn’t believe what they’d done.
Instantly, he missed the warmth of her and the light weight of her small body pressing into his. He reached for her. “Belle—”
“No.”
The single word cut him to the quick. Dropping his hands to his sides, he tightened his jaw as he watched her fumble to fasten up her waistcoat.
“Damnation, Belle,” he growled, unable to tamp down his anger over her rejection, or hide the frustration evident in his stiff cock. “You don’t get to kiss me like that and run off the—”
Another shout went up. This time closer.
Her eyes locked with his for one pained heartbeat. In that moment’s connection he saw both her desire for him and her regret. “Good-bye, Quinton.”
As she turned away and ran down the hill, he saw that familiar fire blazing inside her, the one he loved so much to rouse. Always had, even when they were children. But they certainly weren’t children anymore.
With a pained jolt, he realized, finally, why he so enjoyed tormenting her.
It wasn’t because he enjoyed seeing the fire inside her, but because he enjoyed being the man who put it there. The only man who could stir the anger and passion inside her until it flamed through her like the shimmering of shaken foil.
And he’d never get to experience it again.
* * *
Belle hurried down the path and across the field toward the irrigation ditch. With each step she prayed that her lips weren’t as obviously swollen and red as they felt beneath her fingertips and that no one who saw her would realize what she and Quinn had been doing. Yet thoughts of that wholly unexpected embrace swirled through her mind, confusing her and leaving her in a fogged daze.
Quinton had kissed her. Again. And oh, what a kiss, too. As delicious as she remembered.
No—better. Everything about this last kiss was right. More than right. She groaned—it was perfect. So perfect, in fact, that he had her wanting so much more than just a kiss and a fleeting touch. Which was not only delicious, but downright dangerous.
She’d gotten caught up in him, in the anger he always brought out in her, and then in the wonderful wickedness of his breath-stealing kisses and forbidden touches. But when she’d heard Angus Burns calling out for her, the aching arousal that had been surging through her vanished, replaced instantly by self-recrimination to find herself once more in that scoundrel’s arms. And so shamelessly enjoying it.
To fall for his charms again— Of course he’d wanted that wanton encounter, because he was leaving and so could scamper off scot-free from any problems he might leave behind. She was such a goose! And especially since he’d refused to help her, putting her closer to losing Glenarvon.
When she approached the workmen at the ditch gate, she noted the progress they’d made in her absence, which only added more remorse to the mountain of guilt she already carried over Quinn.
“Looks to be done ’fore noon,” Angus Burns announced as he climbed out of the ditch to stand by her side. Together, they watched as two men finished applying the mortar around the stones that held the gate in place. “’Tweren’t much damage done. More o’ a bother than anythin’.”
“Boys from the village causing trouble,” she muttered with a long sigh, her hands on her hips in frustration. If Quinton didn’t send her to Bedlam, this string of recent troubles would.
“’Tweren’t no boys,” Angus countered in a low voice. He gestured toward the stones. “See them scrape marks there?”
She nodded faintly.
“Used a metal bar t’ pry the gate loose, an’ the force from the water took it the rest o’ the way off. Whoever did this had strength i’ his arms, lassie, an’ meant to cause problems fer ye.”
Her shoulders slumped. The self-recrimination and anger she felt over Quinn completely disappeared beneath Angus’s grim words. What were a few kisses and touches compared to the reality of protecting the estate and the slew of problems that had befallen it lately?
Deliberate destruction meant to do harm…But why?
“Let’s put a padlock on it,” she instructed with a defeated air, not knowing what else to do to prevent it from being vandalized again.
“We’ll build up th’ side tracks, too, wi’ more stone an’ mortar. When we’re through wi’ it, lass,” Angus assured her, nodding confidently at his men, “the only way to open this gate wi’out permission will be to hack through it wi’ an axe.”
She stared glumly at the new gate as it lay on the grass beside the ditch. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“Aye.” Then he slid her a curious, sideways look. “Ye came back from yer walk alone. Has the Englishman returned t’ the house, then?”
She didn’t dare raise her eyes to look at him for fear of what her old friend might see in their depths. “I would assume so.”
They watched in silence as the men finished placing the last stone, then Angus pressed, “Is that Englishman visitin’ fer a reason?” He lowered his voice so none of the men could overhear, “Perhaps ’cause o’ yer birthday an’ what it signifies?”
She grimaced. What it signified was a loss of any hope for a happy future, no matter the outcome. The exact opposite of what Lord Ainsley had wanted by including that entailment in his will.
But knowing Angus was fishing for information about Quinn, she dodged, “Lord Quinton is headed for America. Glenarvon is only a stop on his way to the coast.”
“A demmed shame, then,” Angus muttered. “’Cause he could be the solution t’yer problems.”
“No,” she assured him, turning to help the men with the last of the mortar. “Quinton Carlisle is a problem all his own.”